The Great Betrayal (48 page)

‘Hrekki won’t be pleased at being disturbed,’ muttered Morgrim. ‘He’ll be on his fifth or sixth firkin by now.’

Snorri was dismissive. ‘Let him moan,’ he said. ‘Not all dawi of royal blood have gone to their beds for the night.’

The cousins had reached the edge of the camp and Snorri mounted a rocky hillock so he could gesture to the distant, brooding figure of Brynnoth.

The king of the Sea Hold was crouched down, a plume of pipeweed smoke escaping from his lips that trailed a vaporous purple bruise across the twilit sky. The silhouette of his ocean drake helm sat beside him, a predatory companion. Though he had borne the brunt of the fighting, he had yet to remove his armour or accept healing of any kind.

‘He is marred by this,’ Snorri observed, striking up his own pipe.

‘Do you think any of us will not be by the time this is over, cousin?’

Snorri had no answer, contemplating as he smoked.

‘How’s the hand?’ Morgrim asked after a short-lived silence.

‘Hurts like a bastard.’ What Sorri’s reply lacked in eloquence, it more than made up in its directness.

‘I watched you fight. Never seen you better, cousin.’

‘Even with a gammy hand – ha!’

Snorri looked askance at his cousin, but Morgrim was in no mood for jests.

‘You
want
to kill the elgi, don’t you? It’s like you hate them, Snorri, and don’t care what you have to do to vent the anger that comes with it.’

Again, Snorri fell to silence.

‘Keep at it and it’ll kill you, cousin. That’s why I pulled the throng back. It was the only way to get you to stop.’

The alarum bell pealing out across the camp interrupted them. All three dwarfs drew their weapons. Even Brynnoth was up.

‘Elgi?’ the king of the Sea Hold called.

‘Could be an attack?’ suggested Morgrim, put in mind of an elven sortie from the gates.

Snorri shook his head at them both. ‘Our look-outs would have seen it before it got this close, that’s the camp alarum.’

They ran down off the hillock and back through the entrenched war machines. From deeper in the camp there came the sound of further commotion. A horn was braying and there was the beat of distant drums tattooing a marching song.

‘Not elgi,’ breathed Snorri, his face thunderous.

Morgrim espied banners, waving to and fro above the throngs. They bore the red and blue of the royal house of Everpeak.

‘The High King,’ he said.

Snorri was already scowling. ‘My father is here.’

The war machines
from Karak Varn had been brought forwards and were loosing their deadly cargo by the time the High King’s royal tent was up and Gotrek seated upon his Throne of Power. A single dwarf was granted audience with him, but the meeting was far from cordial.

In the half-light of the tent, Snorri returned the fierce glare of his father with one of equal reproach.

‘I did what I did for the Karaz Ankor, and would do it again,’ he pledged.

Supping on his pipe, Gotrek merely glowered.

The High King’s tent was festooned with banners and statues of the ancestor gods. All three were represented in chiselled stone, each a shrine of worship for when Gotrek wanted to make his oaths. They were shrouded, smoke clouding the room in a dense fug, drowning out the light from hanging braziers and lanterns. A thick carpet of rough crimson material, trimmed with gold, led up to the High King’s seat. Even though he wasn’t yet clad in his battle armour and instead wore a travelling cloak of tanned elk hide over tunic and hose, he still cut an imposing figure. A simple mitre with a ruby at its centre sufficed in place of his crown, but Gotrek’s rune axe was nearby, sitting in its iron cradle, shimmering dully in the gloom.

‘Have you nothing to say to me, father?’ Snorri had expected wrath, reproach, even censure. The silence was maddening. He snorted angrily, ‘I have a war to fight,’ and was turning when Gotrek spoke at last.

‘A little profligate, my son,’ uttered the High King in a rumbling cadence, ‘to loose the mangonels and onagers so indiscriminately.’

Biting his tongue, Snorri faced him again but wouldn’t be baited.

‘The elgi will not rest during the barrage. Come the dawn, when we attack, they’ll be tired. Weaker.’

‘Hmmm…’ The High King grumbled into his beard, then let the silence linger.

It was the Ancient who had once said, ‘
In talks or negotiation of any kind, only speak when necessary and let silence be your greatest weapon. For in quietude your opponent’s tongue will reveal more than he wishes in seeking to fill it.
’

Snorri knew the tactic, but spoke anyway.

‘Are
they
strictly necessary, father?’ He gestured to a small cadre of warriors at the side of the High King. At first, the prince had thought them to be hearthguard. Certainly, they wore the armour and trappings of these veterans. But even Thurbad amongst their ranks, the High King’s ever-present shadow, was not enough to persuade Snorri that these were not singular dwarfs of a different order.

There were seven in total, clad in gromril plate, wearing war helms with full-face masks and a mailed smock that went from armoured chin to chest, draped over the gorget like a beard of chain. No skin was visible on a single one, and for a moment the prince wondered if they were truly alive at all or some runic golems brought to life by Ranuld Silverthumb.

In the end, the High King revealed nothing and merely dismissed them with a nod.

Thurbad led the warriors out of the tent, and father and son were alone.

‘Attacking Tor Alessi alone was an unwise move,’ Gotrek uttered flatly.

Snorri bristled but held his temper again. ‘You were late.’

The High King made no such concession and bellowed, ‘And you are reckless! Starting a war without any thought to the consequences. Rushing in like a fool. You are a beardling playing at being a king, and I will have you kneel before me as your liege-lord.’ He sat up in his throne. ‘Do it now, or I’ll put you down myself.’

Snorri thought about protesting but saw the wisdom in bowing to his father and his king.

‘I acted for the benefit of the Karaz–’

‘No! You acted for your own self-interest, Snorri. You attacked a city, destroyed it, and threw us into war.’

Snorri glared, unprepared to capitulate completely. ‘War was inevitable, father. I merely struck first.’

‘I forbade you.’ Gotrek was on his feet, two steps down from his throne. ‘And you mustered an army. And you played on Brynnoth’s grief, drew him and three other kings into this.’ He shook his head, snarled. ‘I daresay Thagdor and the rest were easily convinced.’

‘They saw as I did.’

‘And they’ll be punished for that. Grudges laid down in blood.’ Taking a long pull of black beer, Gotrek exhaled an exasperated breath. He sat back down again, wiped his beard. ‘By seeking to unite the clans, you have divided us.’

Snorri frowned, confused. ‘But now you’ve declared war, the dawi are one.’

‘Because of you, I have to sanction four of my vassal lords. If you were not my son, I would have killed you for such a transgression.’

Snorri got to his feet, and the High King roared.

‘Don’t defy me further. Kneel down!’

‘I will not, father!’ He thumped his chest. ‘I regret nothing. Nothing! You’ve grown old sitting in that chair. Peace has softened you, made you weak. We’ve already been invaded, our holds and borders both. The skarrens flourish, their king mocks you, and we ignore it. I was wrong about the war, about it being inevitable. We were already
at
war, a war of wills. Ours versus the elgin’s…’ Snorri’s tone became pleading, ‘and we were losing, father.’

The prince let his arms drop to his sides. He lifted his chin, pulling aside his beard to expose his neck.

‘So, do as you will. But I didn’t divide the holds or the clans. You did, when you put the crown of Karaz upon your head and did nothing. Kill me, if the
Dammaz Kron
demands it.’

Gotrek’s fists were clenched like anvils, his chest heaved like a battering ram. Wrath like the heart of Karag Vlak boiled within him.

‘I cannot,’ he growled through a shield wall of teeth.

‘Come, do it! If that is your will, but promise me you’ll destroy these elgi and drive them from the Old World.’

‘I cannot!’ he snapped, standing.

Snorri took three paces until he was before his father at the foot of the Throne of Power.

‘Why, father? Mete out your retribution.’

‘I cannot,’ he hissed.

‘Why?’

‘Because I cannot lose my only son!’ The anger died as quickly as it had erupted and the High King sagged, his face a fractured mask of weariness and remembered pain. ‘Your mother, my queen, is dead, and when she passed half my heart went with her, dreng tromm.’

Releasing a shuddering breath, Gotrek gripped Snorri’s shoulder. Tears glistened in his eyes. The High King’s voice came out in a rasp.

‘I am afraid. This war will destroy us if we let it. I fear it will destroy you too…’

‘Father…’

They embraced, and the bad blood between them drained away.

‘I’m sorry, father. I should not have defied you. Dreng tromm, I should not–’

‘Enough, Snorri.’ Gotrek held Snorri’s face in his hands. He clasped his neck, bringing their heads together, and closed his eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter now. I have been a poor father. I tried to teach you, but was over harsh. I can see that now. I am an old fool, who almost forgot he had a son.’ He pulled back, meeting Snorri’s gaze. ‘We will break the elgi together, and take back the Old World.’

Snorri nodded, wiping away tears with the back of his hand.

‘Now,’ said the High King, ‘tell me of the siege preparations. We have a city to sack.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The First Siege of Tor Alessi

For six days,
Liandra’s morning had begun the same.

Clanking armour as the wearers stomped in unison, the stink of their bodies potent on the breeze, the reek of their dirty cook fires, their furnaces, the soot and ash that seemed to paste the very air, make it thick and greasy. Worst of all were their voices, the crude, guttural bellowing, the flatulent chorus as they rose from their pits, the holes they had dug or the tents they had staved for sleeping in.

‘Khazuk!’

She knew this word, the one they were bleating now, together and in anger. It put her teeth on edge, made her want to unsheathe her sword and begin killing. Liandra did not speak Dwarfish, she found the language base and flat like much of what the mud-dwellers built, but she knew a call to battle and death when she heard it.

Every morning it was like this and every morning, and deep into the night she had endured it. Now, at last, she would get a chance to do something about it.

In a high vault of the Dragon Tower, she looked out onto the battlefield beyond the walls of Tor Alessi at the dwarf host. They marched in thick phalanxes, shields together, axes held upright like stunted ugly statues.

Stout-looking siege towers rolled between the squares of armoured warriors. On a ridge line far behind the advancing army she saw their bulky war engines, strings tautened, ready to loose. Several carried score marks, the deep gouges of eagle claws. There were fewer now than the dwarfs began with, but still a great many remained. A thick line of crossbows sat in front of the machineries, a little farther down the incline, taking shelter amongst scattered rocks.

It would not avail them, elven eyes could see and kill a dwarf hiding in rock easily enough.

And they were digging. How like the mud-dwellers to burrow underground like small-eyed vermin. Like the rocks, there was an answer to that too. She had spoken with Caeris Starweaver and knew of his plan to sunder the tunnels with the dwarfs still in them. Liandra sneered; they were persistent creatures, seemingly content to batter at Tor Alessi’s walls until they broke. Given time, under such constant pressure, they probably would, but then she knew what was coming across the sea and what would happen when it arrived.

She looked towards their own forces and saw the disciplined ranks of spearmen arrayed on the wall. Behind them and below were ranks of archers, their spotters in position between the spearmen to guide their arrows. Several mages had joined the warriors on the battlements and there were small cohorts of Lothern axemen between the spears too. For doubtless, the dwarfs would try to climb again and a heavy blade severs rope more easily than a spear tip.

Some of the refugees from Kor Vanaeth, a pitiful number, swelled the elven host. They were positioned at one of the gates. From the disposition of their forces, the dwarfs looked to be assaulting all three at once. It had taken much resolve not to take flight on Vranesh’s back before now and burn a ragged hole in the mud-dwellers’ ranks, but that would not win the battle. She needed to choose her fights more carefully than that.

‘Princess Athinol…’ One of Prince Arlyr’s retainers was waiting for her in the tower’s portal. He cast a fearful glance into the stygian dark of the vast tower at the hulking presence spewing sulphurous ash into the chamber.

Arlyr was commander of the Silver Helm Knights and like all young lordlings, he was impatient to sally forth, but required a distraction.

Liandra had decided to be much more than that.

‘Tell him I am almost ready,’ she said, donning her war helm and turning from the battlefield. It wouldn’t be long before she’d see it again, this time on leather wings and spitting fire.

Dull thunder rumbled
from above, shaking the roots of Ari and spilling earth on the miners. They were close, almost to the wall. Six days of hard toil had almost come to fruition.

Nadri wiped a clod from his brow, spitting out the dirt before hacking down with his pick. It was tough work, but preferable to the battlefield. A muffled clamour was all that reached them from above, and even that was barely audible through the digging song and the thud of sundered earth.

‘
Ho-hai, ho-hai…
’ Nadri joined in with the sonorous refrain, reminded of the attack on Kor Vanaeth’s gate. Rise and fall, rise and fall, his pickaxe was almost pendulous. The diggers cut the rock, the gatherers took it away in barrels to shore up the foundations. Runners brought stone flasks of tar-thick beer. Used to the finer ales, Nadri found the brew caustic but at least it was fortifying. Every miner took a pull and their spirits and strength were renewed. They cut by lantern light, the lamps hooked on spikes rammed into the tunnel walls with every foot the dwarfs dug out. Just a few more and they would breach.

Behind the miners were a wedge of the heaviest-armoured warriors Nadri had ever seen. He had heard tales of the ironbreakers, the dwarfs that guarded the old tunnels and forgotten caves of the Ungdrin road, but had never seen one face to face. Up close, they were imposing and seemingly massive. Hulking gromril war plate layered their bodies and their beards were black as coal, thick and wiry. Hard, granite-edged eyes glinted behind their half-masked helms, waiting for the moment when the digging was done and the fighting would begin.

Rest over, Nadri gave the flask back to the runner with nodded thanks, and returned to the rock face.

Soon, very soon now.

The iron ramp
slammed down into the breach with enough force to knock the defenders onto their backs.

The dwarfs raised shields immediately as they were met by an arrow storm.

Morgrim roared as if his voicing his defiance could turn the shafts aside, and ploughed forwards.

‘Uzkul!’

The reply came as a roar of affirmation from Morgrim’s warriors, who surged alongside their thane into a host of elven spears.

It was the third assault in six days. The dwarfs had used probing attacks after the night bombardment, picking at weak points, gauging the strength of the defences and defenders. The east gate was deemed the most likely point of breach, it was the most distant of the routes into the city and therefore less well fortified. For the last three days, Gotrek Starbreaker had amassed forces in the east, concealed by trenchworks. Stray barrages from the stone throwers had weakened the gate house around the towers. Great clay pots of pitch were being readied to weaken it further.

Morgrim took the north wall, volunteering to lead a cohort in one of the siege towers and onto the very battlements of Tor Alessi. It was to be a hard push – the High King wanted the elves to think this was the main point of assault. Morgrim was happy to oblige.

Half-sundered by their war machines, chunks of battlement broke away as the dwarfs tramped over it. One poor soul lost his footing and fell to his death many feet below. No one in the front ranks watched him but a grudgekeeper in the rearguard called out the dwarf’s name to ensure he would be remembered.

‘Uzkul!’ Morgrim yelled again, bludgeoning a spearman’s skull as he fended off another with his shield. He drew one elf in, butting him hard across the nose and splitting his face apart. Another dwarf finished the spearman when he dropped his guard, recoiling in pain.

An axe blade dug into his weapon’s haft and Morgrim shook it free, snarling. He kicked out, snapping the elf’s shin with a hobnailed boot, before burying his hammer head into the warrior’s neck. Blood fountained up in a ragged arc, painting a clutch of spearmen who pressed on despite their disgust.

Morgrim smashed one in the shoulder with his shield and took a spear in the thigh for his trouble. Smacking it away before the wielder could thrust, he incapacitated the second elf with a low blow to the groin. The backhand took a third spearman in the torso. A dwarf warrior next to him fell in the same moment before one of his fellow clansmen stepped in to take his place.

Somewhere in the frenzy, Morgrim and his warriors gained the battlements. Elves came at them from either side, wielding spears and silver swords. The small knot of dwarfs, desperately trying to expand outwards and establish a foothold, was quickly corralled.

Barely before Morgrim had Tor Alessi stone under his feet, a fair-haired captain carrying a jewelled axe and a small shield hit him hard. Daggers of pain flared in his shoulder but the runes on the dwarf’s armour held against the elf magic and Morgrim kept his arm. He replied with an overhand swing, denting the elf’s shield before uppercutting with his own. Spitting blood, the elf’s chin came up and Morgrim barged into him, barrelling the captain over the battlements and to his death. It only seemed to galvanise the other elves further.

The dwarfs gained maybe three feet. It was tough going. Arrows whistled in at them from below, piercing eyes and necks, studding torsos like spines. Out the corner of his eye, Morgrim saw Brungni spin like a nail, three white shafts embedded in his back. The inner side of the wall was open, and a yawning gap stretched into a courtyard below. It left the dwarfs dangerously exposed, a fact Brungni learned to his cost. In his death throes he handed off the banner to Tarni Engulfson before falling into a riot of elven spears below.

‘Don’t drop that,’ Morgrim warned.

The young dwarf nodded, clutching grimly to the banner pole.

A hastily-erected line of shields protected the battling dwarfs from the worst of the elven volleys but it made fighting to the front and rear more difficult.

Farther down the wall, Morgrim saw another siege tower reach the battlements. A plume of flame fashioned into an effigy of a great eagle engulfed it before the ramp was even released, burning the dwarfs within. Cracking wood, the sound of splitting timbers raked the air as the tower collapsed in on itself, killing those warriors waiting on the platforms below. It tumbled slowly like a felled oak and was lost from Morgrim’s sight.

There would be no reinforcement on the wall, not yet.

He lifted his rune hammer to rally the spirits of his warriors. By now it was a familiar cry.

‘Uzkul!’

Death
.

Gotrek watched the
battle from atop his Throne of Power.

Below, his bearers were unyielding, their strength unfailing. It needed to be; throne and king were a heavy burden in more ways than one.

Several of the siege towers had reached the ramparts of the north wall and two of the gates were under assault with battering rams and grappling hooks. A sortie of elven horse riders had stalled the third assault, Thagdor’s longbeards currently waging a contest of attrition with the high-helmed knights.

Gotrek would have bet his entire treasure hoard on the victors of that fight, but it was hard to smile when the elves were making them pay so dearly for every foot.

From the east flank, quarrellers maintained a regular barrage from behind their mantlets. Behind them on a grassy ridge, the war machines continued to loose with devastating effect. Several sections of the wall were broken and split, but not enough to force a breach. They needed the tunnels to undermine them, bring the foundations crashing down into a pool of fire as the dwarfs burned the elven stone to ash.